


The Heavy Weight of Living

by lazarus_girl



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1261153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days following Finn’s memorial service, Santana tries her best to get her life back on track. She’s so busy picking up the pieces for everyone else, that she forgets all about herself. When she reaches breaking point, a trip to Boston gives her a whole new perspective.</p><p>
  <i>“Nothing is right.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heavy Weight of Living

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lindajoskid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindajoskid/gifts).



> Follows canon. Takes place shortly after ‘The Quarterback.’ Finn, his death, and the effects thereof are referenced throughout. The first half of this piece is also dedicated to Dani and Santana’s relationship. If you don’t like or are sensitive to either of these things, then don’t read it. No hard feelings! I could tell you were the Brittana portion of the story begins, but I believe they impact on each other, so then you’d only get half of the picture instead of the full version, and I don’t feel that’s fair. If you’re willing to take a risk and give it a read in spite of those things, I think you’ll be rewarded. Written for and prompted by the fabulous [ijustkeepitmovin](http://ijustkeepitmovin.tumblr.com) who wanted me to explore Santana’s feelings in the aftermath of Finn’s passing. Though this was hard to write, thank you for the challenge. I will probably never touch upon this era of canon again, so there are a lot of things explored here beyond the listed parings. Thank you, as ever, to my dear beta [itcameuponamidnightqueer](http://itcameuponamidnightqueer.tumblr.com) for her support and encouragement when I would’ve otherwise given up. Title from Bastille’s '[Weight of Living Pt. 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyzHYg9BYRs),’ which I listened to whilst working on this. Click [here](https://24.media.tumblr.com/5b5b5f708f5b685f409efaddcdafb312/tumblr_n3op35kTiC1txkikoo7_r1_250.png) to see the face claims of featured secondary characters.

***

 _“The Half-life of love is forever.”_  
– Junot Díaz, _This Is How You Lose Her_.

***

“Hey, little Suzy Homemaker, your pancakes are burning.”

Santana starts, blinking back surprise. She sees Finn leaning against the counter nearby, smiling his crooked half-smile, in his signature flannel and jeans holding a freshly buttered triangle of toast he’s using as a pointer. She didn’t even hear him come into the kitchen. When she blinks again, he’s gone and she’s staring at mid-morning sun filtering in through the window, curtains starting to billow when the breeze picks up. 

She shudders slightly, barefoot and in nothing but a thin t-shirt, but this isn’t ordinary cold, it’s the kind of chill she feels deep in her bones. Shortly afterward, the smell of burning pancake batter invades her nostrils, snapping her out of her daze. She looks down at the stove to see nothing but blackened remains. 

“Oh shit!” she curses, reaching for the pan handle, forgetting completely that it’s hot. “Fuck you!” she cries, throwing the pan in the general direction of the sink, but it misses, hitting the tile, and she jumps back to avoid it. “Fucking _fucker!_ Oww!”

Just when she thinks everything actually is fine, and that the world has righted itself again, something comes along and reminds her that it’s not at all. Today it’s burned pancakes. A week ago it was a red sock in a white load at the Laundromat. The week before that it was bawling her eyes out in front of both generations of New Directions. She shouldn’t be here with Dani in Brooklyn – the L train seems twice as long these days – cooking breakfast and going on like nothing at all has happened. It’s just _wrong_. The blissful-light-as-air-post-sex mood has definitely dissipated. It’s not the same as before. Everything looks the same and everyone sounds the same, but they’re not. They’re like Xeroxes of themselves; altered and off-kilter. Nothing is right. Nothing is right because Finn is dead and she has no place feeling sad about it, and even less of an idea how to stop it.

“Santana are you OK?” Dani asks, rushing in from the bedroom, tugging a sweatshirt over her head as she comes closer. “What happened?”

“That fucking thing happened!” she points toward the sink and the still smoking pan, flexing her other hand trying to ignore how much it hurts.

She’s not sure how ‘I just saw the ghost of my dead friend and I ended up burning the shit out of our breakfast’ would go over before noon. She’s just tired. One too many shifts on the bounce at the Spotlight, that’s all. It’s been happening a lot lately, but she doesn’t want to tell anyone or let herself really stop and think about exactly how many times is ‘a lot.’

“Oh babe,” Dani says, softly, guiding her toward the sink, thrusting her hand under the tap, massaging the back of it for a few moments comfort her. “You’re a total disaster!” she laughs lightly. “Keep it there a little,” she adds, softly, in a voice Santana’s never heard before. 

She’s being kind and soft toward her instead of snarky and witty like usual and Santana _hates_ it because it means things aren’t usual, and someone other than her has noticed. 

“Idiot,” she mutters, shaking her head.

This is definitely _not_ what she had planned when she pitched a lazy breakfast in bed to Dani between kisses half an hour ago. Not at all. It was meant to be something nice, easy and relaxed, to take advantage of the fact they’re not rostered on until the evening. It was also meant to be a thank you for how good Dani’s been through everything – Rachel and Kurt included – and now she’s just angry and frustrated at herself for ruining it.

“Nope, just a klutz,” Dani corrects, quickly pecking her on the cheek. “A really cute one.”

Despite her mood, Santana smiles. Just like she knew she would, she feels an immediate twinge of guilt. It feels wrong to be happy at a time like this. 

Dani seems to sense it, and it looks like she’s going to ask her a question, but stops herself. Instead, she turns her attention to the pan, protecting herself the sleeve of her sweatshirt to retrieve it from the floor, Santana just stands there, hand going numb under the cold water, watching, her brain on satellite delay as Dani tips the burned pancake remnants into the bin, putting the pan itself into the sink, leaving it to cool. 

“Are you OK?” Dani asks again when the silence gets too heavy. Santana’s too busy watching the water cascade over her hand to answer. “Alright so, some of these are a _little_ burned, but the rest look pretty fucking good,” she continues, swiftly changing the subject, motioning toward the tray of food Santana had already begun to prepare. “Totally salvageable.”

“Sorry,” Santana says quickly as she dries her hand, inspecting her palm. It’s more painful than it looks.

She’s not really sure what she’s saying sorry for. “It’s cool,” Dani shrugs, gently lifting Santana’s hand to her lips and kissing it. “Better?” 

“Much,” Santana nods, mouth just curving into a smile, forcing herself to keep going instead of giving into it all. If she does that, everything she’s feeling might swallow her whole. It’s a familiar feeling. 

She turns her attention back to what was meant to be breakfast in bed, pouring out juice for them both, glad she has something to do with her hands, gulping down most of her glass in one. Next to her, Dani redistributes the remaining pancakes across both plates, humming a familiar tune. Glancing down as she sets the glasses on the tray, Santana can’t help but see that there’s a distance between them now, and it’s not just because there’s a whole square and a half of tile separating them. It wasn’t always this much hard work. It wasn’t always this awkward. 

The first time they made breakfast here, just a few weeks ago, when they were pressed close to each other the whole time; flirting and touching unnecessarily every time they brushed past each other to reach for something. Things were easy with her, and they were having fun getting to know each other. Then Finn died, and Santana’s entire focus shifted – it _had_ to shift – and they’ve barely had any time alone. This is the longest they’ve been together since it happened, and it just feels _weird_ , but worse than weird, because no one is to blame and she doesn’t know what to do about any of it.

“Let’s finish breakfast hmm?” Dani suggests, her hands sliding around Santana’s waist, holding her from behind. Her words sound a lot more like ‘I’m really worried about you’ instead.

Santana says nothing, and leans into her touch, sighing as Dani reaches up and presses soft kisses to her neck. 

“I think that’s a good start,” she murmurs as she turns to kiss her fully, grabbing a handful of Dani’s t-shirt to pull her closer.

Kissing is good. Kissing stops her from thinking. Kissing stops her from worrying about how her phone hasn’t rung all night or how weird it felt to wake up with Dani instead of with Rachel after watching over her all night until she fell asleep, exhausted from crying. She never thought she’d ever want to be woken up by Rachel practising scales and belting out Barbra at some disgusting early hour, but she’d take it now. She’d take anything but the quiet shell of a girl that exists in Rachel’s place when they’re alone and she doesn’t try to be strong for other people.

“I think so too,” Dani begins, between one kiss and the next. “I have … ” she trails off as their kisses deepen, her hands drifting down Santana’s back.

With each kiss, Santana feels all those niggling fears and doubts get pushed to the back of her mind. It’s the perfect distraction. They’re good at that. They haven’t spoken about how Santana’s coping once, and that’s fine, because she wouldn’t even know where to start.

“ …The perfect playlist for it.”

“Oh really?” Santana pulls back grudgingly, curling a lock of Dani’s hair around her ear. “That’s a pretty big statement.”

“You haven’t heard it yet,” she counters. “Someone tells me you make better pancakes than Jeff the Chef at the Spotlight, and that’s an even bigger one.”

“You haven’t tasted them yet.” 

“God, is this where you tell me you were Intergalactic Pancake Champion in addition to winning Cheerios and Glee nationals right? Your overachievement is actually disgusting!”

“Totally is,” Santana laughs, reaching for the tray, letting herself be proud for moment, because she’s right they _do_ look pretty damn good.

“You’re a keeper, Lopez,” Dani declares, with a wink, smacking Santana playfully on the ass before giving chase.

That blissful feeling is back. Santana almost feels OK. Almost. 

***

They get their breakfast in bed eventually, when they manage to remember its there on the nightstand. First, an impromptu pillow fight distracts them, then, a game of Mercy turns into twenty minutes of solid make out. Dani’s playlist is three songs in, and they’ve eaten two pancakes each before it all comes to a grinding halt. Foreigner. Heart. Hall and Oates. All cheesy and all fucking awesome because they turn it up super loud and sing along even louder, bouncing around in on the bed like they’re five; kissing each other giddy and breathless like they’re not. 

The second Santana hears the opening riff of the fourth song, she almost chokes. When the lyric starts, she can’t breathe. She can’t. She can’t hear that song. 

_Just a smalltown girl, living in a lonely world …_

“Turn it off!” she says as calm as she can, heart speeding in her chest. “Just fucking turn it off!”

“What? Who hates Journey man, come on!”

Dani laughs, elbowing her playfully, but she’s not laughing at all, scrambling across the bed for Dani’s laptop to make it stop playing.

“Turn it off!” she screams again, growing hysterical as she taps frantically at the trackpad. No matter what she does, it continues playing, “Make it stop!”

_She took the midnight train going anywhere …_

“Santana … babe …. What?”

She knows she’s being ridiculous and it’s not even Dani’s fault. She doesn’t know everything yet. She doesn’t really know her yet, but Santana can’t help it. Glee club and all the performances flash up in her mind and she just needs it gone. All she can see is Finn. Ridiculous, stupid, irritating, horrendously bad at dancing Finn, and she bursts into tears. 

Dani can’t see her like this, not now. Not yet. Not ever. She flies up off the bed, hands covering her ears, curling up against the side of Dani’s dresser, angry at herself for crying even angrier at the reason why She screws her eyes closed, forcing herself to stop, but she can’t seem to. 

After a few very long seconds, the muffled sound of the song stops too and Santana braves opening her eyes. 

“It’s gone now,” Dani says, kneeling in front of her and gently pulling her hands from her ears. “It’s gone. What was that about?”

All Santana can say is one word, choked out between fresh sobs: “Finn.” Everything else about how they used to sing it, and how fucked up it is that he’s gone and she misses him even though she hated him for a lot of the time is lost as she gulps for air and fights with herself not to start crying all over again.

“Oh Santana …” 

Dani moves closer, reaching out to hug her and she can’t let it happen. She can’t go there yet. She can’t let Dani be the one to shush and soothe and hold her. Santana’s already let her see far too much. 

“Don’t,” she warns, struggling against it until she’s forced to push her away. When she speaks again, her voice hits that strange high pitch like it did that day in the choir room. “Just don’t do that! Don’t _fucking_ touch me!”

Her stomach lurches at the memory, and she does the only thing she knows how. She runs, bumping into everything as she rushes out of the room, ignoring how confused and hurt Dani sounds as she calls her name. 

Once she makes it to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her, she leans against it, head and palmed pressed flat against it, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Unable to fight it anymore, she crumples to the floor, and lets out a wounded, ugly sob. The bathroom is silent, save for a dripping tap that neither Dani or her roommate Ty ever get around to fixing, making it sound disproportionately loud. She’s crying, really crying now, in the way she wanted to since the funeral. She didn’t cry once during the service. She had to be strong for everyone else. It’s mostly a blur. The only thing she remembers clearly is Brittany on her left side, Quinn on her right, and how tightly they clutched her hands as they cried. All she could do was listen and endure it; a conduit absorbing their sadness as the reverend spoke. It took up so much space, there was none left for her own. 

***

She’s not sure how long it’s been when she finally stops crying, laid flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling when there’s a soft tapping at the door. She sits up slowly, wincing at the ache in her sides because she’s cried so much she threw up, and all she can think is that this is just a pale imitation of what Rachel and Kurt must be feeling, and that makes her feel even worse. When she stands over the sink, rinsing her mouth out with water to get rid of the bad taste, she doesn’t recognise the girl she sees in the mirror.

“Santana …”

She stays silent, but crawls toward the door, pressing herself against it. 

“Go to her. Just go. I can’t be what you need right now.”

Santana’s hand flies to her mouth, and lets out a strangled noise. She doesn’t need Dani to say the name. Brittany’s been there all the while, underneath everything: in between her words, hidden in the breaths between their kisses and the space between her heartbeats. Dani’s been in competition all along. There are three of them in this relationship, and it’s always been that way, right from the start. How could she have been so blind to it? How could she have been so cruel?

With trepidation, Santana opens the bathroom door, unsure what to say when Dani is revealed on the other side. 

“Are you sure?” is all she can manage. 

It sounds woefully inadequate.

“Yes,” Dani replies, taking both of Santana’s hands in her own carefully. “You need her. She needs you. There hasn’t been a day when you haven’t spoken to her, Santana. I can’t compete with that.”

There’s no anger in her voice, no spite. She sounds so sad, broken and resigned. 

“She’s my friend … I care about her … It’s not like that,” she babbles, desperate lessen the pain she sees in Dani’s eyes. 

“You’re in love with her. A part of you will always be with her, and I’m selfish, I don’t want to share you. There’s no point if you’re only half in love with me. I get it. I’m Miss Right Now. I’m the girl rebound girl. It’s cool. It’s OK.”

“No, no it’s really not!” 

She didn’t think anything could make her feel worse than when she broke up with Brittany. This is worse. 

“Yes,” Dani nods, squeezing Santana’s hands tightly, “yes it is. Go to Boston. See her. She can give you what I can’t.”

“Dani,” she pleads, feeling her throat start to close up, tears stinging at the back of her eyes once more. 

“Shh,” Dani soothes, putting a finger to Santana’s lips. “Stop beating yourself up. I’m a big girl. I’ll get over it. Eventually.”

“Can we still be friends?” Santana finds herself asking out of nowhere, because she really does like hanging out with her. Dani’s the first real friend she found in New York; she doesn’t want to forget that. 

“In the grand tradition of lesbians everywhere, I think I can manage that. If we’re both honest, good sex aside, I think we make better friends. Being halfway to happy isn’t happy enough.”

“No, it’s not,” Santana admits, quietly, looking down at their joined hands. “I’m sorry.”

She is. She really is. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her. At some point, it felt right and good and everything Santana needed, but that time’s passed and they both know it. 

“You can’t help what you feel,” Dani sighs. “Or what you don’t.”

“It’s been fun.”

“Sure has.”

They both smile, but it’s sad. When they kiss – their last, and it feels that way – it’s soft and slow. Santana tastes the salt of tears, unsure if they’re Dani’s or her own, and it’s sadder still. The kiss lingers longer than it really should, and they stand in silence looking at each other, not sure what to say or how to be now the boundaries of their relationship have been hastily redrawn. Somehow, Dani finds it in her to help her pack the few things she’s kept at the apartment into a bag and buys her a train ticket online while she showers. 

***

When she sees the e-ticket on the table, it’s for the Acela Express, Business Class, faster and more expensive than the Northeast Regional she always planned on taking when visiting felt like something she could do without it being weird. 

It never reached that place. She and Brittany have been nothing but words on a screen and voices on a line for a long time now. That’s always something she knows is her fault, even if the promise they made to keep in touch and visit each other is bent rather than broken completely. 

“Dani, this is too much. I can’t,” she says, pushing the paper back toward her.

“Yeah, you can. I have the money. I want to do this for you and Brittany. It’s going to take you long enough to get there as it is, why be uncomfortable?”

“But why?”

“Why not?” Dani shrugs. “Just because we decided to break up, it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you. Feelings don’t come with an off switch, babe.”

“Oh,” is all that Santana can manage to say, because she knows that’s true. Her gaze falls to the floor, fixed on Dani’s boots. 

She still feels connected to her. She still feels connected to Brittany, and that’s been the problem. That twist and pull, keeping her heart in two places, brought pain all of its own. 

“I did love you, you know,” she says, after moment, looking Dani right in the eyes, blinking back fresh tears.

“I know,” Dani nods, moving closer, placing the folded e-ticket in Santana’s hand. “but it wasn’t the same as the love you feel for Brittany. I wish it was,” she lets out a small, sad peel of laughter at that. “But it can’t be, and I kind of always knew that, so don’t think you’re the bad guy. OK?”

It feels both right and wrong that when she leaves, ten minutes later, Dani chooses to come along and keep her company until Penn Station. Wrong because well, they broke up not half an hour before, and right because Santana can’t really imagine doing this alone right now. 

They’re quiet throughout the journey on the 2 Line, and she’s surprised when Dani takes her hand, lacing their fingers together. She doesn’t let go of Dani’s hand even when they’re headed into Penn Station, despite knowing that she should. 

“Thank you,” she says, as they next to each other in the waiting lounge watching for the arrival of her Boston-bound train.

She doesn’t just mean for today. She means for everything. As break-ups go, this is one of the least painful. 

“I said we could still be friends and I meant it,” Dani replies, sincerely.

At any other time, Santana would lean over and kiss her, but now it feels like cheating. The lines between them are already blurred; she doesn’t want to muddy them any further. Instead, she squeezes Dani’s hand, and they both smile, acknowledging the moment. 

There’s an air of finality to it all that makes it feel like a line has been drawn under things. That a door or maybe a window has closed on one part of her life and now she’s ready to enter another one.

Whether they remain friends for five minutes or for the next fifty years, Danielle Fraser will matter. She’ll matter because she was the first girl other than Brittany that Santana was attracted to, felt ready to date, and call her girlfriend. Those three things had never happened before. Not with Library Girl, not with Elaine, not even that ill-advised one night stand with Quinn. After the initial weirdness of having feelings for someone new and the proverbial fear of rejection, there was none of the turmoil that came with falling in love the first time around. She just liked Dani, and that was it. No guilt, no shame, no wanting to keep it a secret. The training wheels have most definitely come off. She’s not just gay for Brittany, she’s gay for everyone, and that’s a huge thing, that’s taken her a long time to deal with, and Brittany, Dani and even Rachel have been instrumental in that process.

Now Rachel is on her mind – she’s rarely off it these days, which is weird in itself – she calls Kurt just to see how they’re both doing. Talking to anyone else would be far too draining right now. Without Santana even asking, Dani keeps watch for the train, checking the time every so often her phone, pacing up and down the platform.

Santana’s just about to leave a message for Kurt on his voicemail when he picks up. 

_“Hi”_ he croaks, his voice raw and scratchy from yelling, crying or both.

“Hey Kurt,” she replies, slowly – too slowly – because she’s trying to gauge what to say.

It feels weird to call him that, because she never does. It’s always some variation on Lady Face or just plain old Gay Hummel, but it doesn’t feel right. He picks up on it too, unable to hide a gasp of surprise. 

_“Why are you even up before noon?”_ he asks eventually. 

Santana flinches because he sounds _terrible_. Usually, she’d laugh, throw out some comment that would make him blush so much she could hear it, but instead, she opts for the truth because they can do that now.

“Long story, but, I’m going to Boston for a little bit. Will you guys be OK?”

Technically, she knows that’s a stupid question. They’re not even _in_ New York at the moment, they’re in Cedar Rapids with Rachel’s dads and Burt and Carole at Finn’s grandparents place, so it’s not like they’re rattling round the loft on their own, but still, Santana doesn’t want them to think she’s abandoned them and doesn’t care just because they’re not within two feet of each other. 

His response is quick. _“Does that mean what I think it means?”_

“I don’t know,” she admits, because well, she has no fucking idea what it means.

_“Oh, you broke up with Dani didn’t you?”_

She sighs heavily. “It’s complicated.”

_“When is it not with you?”_

She huffs out a laugh, because she’s lost count of the number of post-break-up drunken conversations they had passing a bottle of cheap vodka between them as they cried, sat in front of _Project Runway_. Rachel did her crying alone, even then.

Before she can think of a reply that doesn’t involve using the words ‘evil heart-breaking bitch’ – because she’s done that twice now, even if Dani pulled the pin this time – Kurt speaks again.

_“Say hello to Brittany for me.”_

For the briefest of moments, he sounds something like happy. Thank God he’s smart enough for her not to need to explain this morning’s events, because she wouldn’t have any idea where to start. 

“I will,” she nods for good measure, even though he can’t see it. “Call me if you need anything, I’ll come right back.”

 _“You will not!”_ he practically screeches, and she yanks the phone away from her ear.

That’s more like Kurt she’s come to know and love.

“You’re only allowed to come back early if you bring a guest,” he orders.

She lifts her head to the sky, shaking it. “Kurt, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I can’t promise anything.”

_“Neither do I, but I don’t want you to go in there telling her half-truths again. You hear me?"_

“Such as?” she bristles, frowning. 

_“Shut it, Lopez!”_

“Fine!” she groans. “Jesus, you must be feeling better!”

When he speaks again, his voice is soft and sincere. _“You only get so many chances in life, Santana. Don’t waste them. Rachel would say the same.”_

She doesn’t need to say anything else, and neither does he. The intent of his words is heavy enough. There’s a long silence before he hangs up, and she’s still thinking about what he said long after she’s put her phone in her jeans pocket. She listened to Rachel talk about how she and Finn would get back together someday. How they’d get married and have a perfect little house, with the white-picket fence, two kids, a cat and a dog and a room for all her awards to go in. Santana can still see her face, lit up whenever she said it. Except, someday never came for either of them. 

Twenty minutes or so later, the train is pulling out of the station; hurtling her toward that someday, whether she likes it or not. She waves to Dani on the platform until she can’t see her anymore, and even though it really hurts, she knows this is the right thing to do.

This is her someday. Today. Right now. 

***

It’s over two hours into her journey, and she’s deep into second thoughts, even jamming her earbuds in and listening to Frank Ocean at ridiculously unhealthy volumes isn’t enough to drown them out. She’s giving serious thought to getting off at the next station and turning tail back to New York. She could rewind things with Dani, and they could just get back together, give it another try. Even Cedar _fucking_ Rapids looks good right now, because inexplicably, Finn’s grandma, Joanie, loves the shit out of her, and is constantly trying to feed her and Rachel up. The refrigerator in the loft is packed full of her cooking, but it’s untouched. 

The idea of setting foot in Boston is suddenly terrifying to her, and it shouldn’t be because it’s _Brittany_ for God’s sake. She’s never not happy to see her, and would think nothing of throwing a ticker tape parade or at the very least a hall party in celebration of her arrival. 

They’re still close, but not as close as they used to be. It’s possible that she’s too late, again, to show Brittany how much she loves her. For all Santana knows, she could be dating someone, completely happy with her life in Boston – it always seems that way whenever she talks about her friends, Joey and Alex, or her weird little roommate Erin – and then, typically, she’s just going to waltz in there and fuck everything up for her all over again. It’s what she does. She just bottles up her feelings and when she can’t take it anymore, they come tumbling out of her mouth like she’s confessing to Father Gutiérrez on a Sunday. Then, she walks away and leaves people to deal with the fallout of what she’s said, only to deny she said it at all hours later.

At least, that’s what she used to do. 

There doesn’t feel like anything to confess this time. Brittany already knows everything she has to say, so she shouldn’t be worried about reconnecting with her, but she has too many doubts nagging at her for this this to play out like some cheesy rom-com. Things like she doesn’t know how Brittany will react when she shows up out of nowhere, and she also doesn’t know how Brittany feels about her anymore. She doesn’t know how she feels about Brittany either, not right now, despite the truth of what Dani said earlier today. After their break-up, and through the whole Sam mess, she had to put her feelings away; tuck them into some dark corner of her mind and try to keep going, but if she’s honest, it never really worked. The binds between them were too tight and too intricate for that.

Just as the train pulls into South Station, and she’s putting on her jacket and backpack, hurrying to catch the Red Line toward Alewife, she finally realises why letting Brittany go – why losing her – has been so hard to deal with. Loving Brittany isn’t something she can or can’t do, it’s just something that is; like breathing. 

For the first time in almost two years, she’s thinking about letting herself open up that corner of her mind; fill it with light and breathe deeper than she ever has.

Hopefully, she has enough breath to survive should it go wrong. 

***

The train to the Kendall stop seems to take just as long as the one from New York. She’s been antsy the whole time, barely able to sit still, foot tapping in time to the Janelle Monáe album that she’s had on repeat since she boarded. Her excitement started bubble to the surface long ago; huddled in the corner seat, nose pressed to the window like when she was six-years-old, looking out at New York as the her aunt Eva’s car went over the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time.

She hasn’t felt like this since she took Brittany on their first real date to BreadstiX when they were still in high school. Given everything that’s happened and everything they’ve dealt with since then, it feels like a lifetime ago.

***

Once she’s on campus, she’s a little less sure of her cross-state dash. She has no idea where she’s going, and the place is surprisingly busy. Her only map is what she drew on the back of a Spotlight napkin while Brittany relayed it to her over the phone just after she got settled at MIT, showing the way from Kendall Square to her dorm at Simmons Hall. Since then, it’s been switched out of bags, jeans and jacket pockets, and it’s survived being destroyed in the washer more times than she cares to count. A silly thing to keep, because Brittany didn’t even write it, she did – and so quickly that it’s borderline illegible – but she just needed something with her to remind her that Brittany existed and that they were still important to each other, when it wasn’t right to wear the bracelets they gave each other or carry around a picture. 

Even though it’s a straight run pretty much, she’s managed to take a few wrong turns, doubling back on herself in panic, but, she’s finally here: Building W79, 229-243 Vassar Street. She knows the entire address off by heart, despite the fact she’s never actually mailed Brittany anything. It’s an imposing building, but kind of cool; like someone went crazy with a bunch of giant Legos and likes windows way more than doors, because that’s all she can see. Brittany had her pick of the campus, and honestly, Santana can’t imagine a better fit. She remembers her excitement when they talked on the phone – “it looks like I’m living in some crazy robot’s mouth,” and she’s been the sounding board a few times for her attempts at redecorating and making it her own. Thanks to all the pictures, the Skype sessions, and the vlogs – both often guest starring a very un-camera shy Joey – it feels like she’s been here already, and it’s also starting to feel less weird that she’s gatecrashing, because her being here is all Brittany’s ever wanted. 

She hovers by the entrance, waiting until a group of students to come out, so she can go in behind them. Brittany told her she’s supposed to see the Desk Attendant first and sign in, but would kind of ruin the surprise. Her name is one of six on Brittany’s permitted guest list, along with Quinn and Brittany’s immediate family. Knowing that still makes her feel kind of special – she still has the picture of the form on her phone, amused by how different and wonderful her name looked in Brittany’s handwriting. Hopefully she can make it upstairs to Brittany’s room without the campus police kicking her out. She’s all for grand gestures, but getting herself arrested really isn’t the kind of thing she’s looking for.

What is she looking for exactly? Well, right now it’s getting to Brittany’s room without being distracted by pool tables and ball pits, and people and whatever else, because it feels like she’s stepped foot into something straight out of Dr Seuss. Even the staircase is cool. After the journey she’s had, it’s amazing but overwhelming. She doesn’t want to linger too much, because she knows Brittany will be itching to give her the full on tour, and they’ve been waiting so long to do this that Santana doesn’t want to spoil anything for either of them. She’s so busy looking for the right room number after climbing two flights of stairs and counting down (or up, whatever) that she actually misses it, despite the fact she’s been chanting ‘215’ in her head to make sure she didn’t. Carefully, she doubles back, lining herself up with the door, smiling to herself idiotically when she sees ‘Brittany S. Pierce’ handwriten on a little sign tacked below the room number. All she has to do is knock and she finds herself suddenly incapable, hands stuck fast in her jacket pockets, rendered mute into the bargain.

The decision is made for her a few moments later when Brittany emerges at the exact moment she summons up the courage to knock. There’s a blast of Ke$ha, then they collide unceremoniously with each other in the hallway, and she’s almost knocked off her feet.

“Santana! Oh my God! What are you doing here?!” Brittany squeals with delight, looking at her like she hasn’t seen her in a decade rather than a few weeks. “You’re here! You’re here!” she continues, beaming. 

Before Santana can answer, Brittany is pulling her into a hug that lifts her off the floor, squeezing so hard that it’s kind of difficult to breathe and it’s more than possible she looks a complete mess and so _painfully_ New York that it’s tragic; but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care because after months of waiting and hours of travelling, she’s made it. She’s here, and Brittany’s holding her and it’s just the same as always. It feels right and good and like everything that’s been wrong with her is suddenly right and she just wants to bury her face into Brittany’s neck and breathe her in, because _God_ she’s missed her more than she ever thought possible.

The enormity of the moment hits her all in one go the second her feet touch the ground and she finds herself sobbing out of nowhere.

“Oh Santana,” Brittany exclaims in this soft, broken little voice, pulling her close, cradling the back of her head and stroking her hair. 

“I just really needed to see you …” she chokes out eventually, words half muffled by Brittany’s sweater. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Me too,” Brittany replies, sniffing back her own tears. “It’s OK. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

The way she says ‘I’ve got you’ sounds an awful lot like ‘I missed you.’ Both things are true. 

Santana whimpers, closes her eyes and lets herself be held. This is what she wanted this morning after the Journey song debacle. This is what she wanted after she got drunk at Finn’s wake with Puck, and felt worse instead of better. This is what she wanted when they left the choir room together (but apart) for the last time and she knew Lima wasn’t home to her anymore. 

***

“Sorry about that,” she declares, sheepish, looking down at the tissue in her hands as she sits on Brittany’s bed trying to gather herself.

More than anything, she’s embarrassed what just happened. The telltale slamming of doors as Brittany led her inside the dorm mean that people other than Brittany saw her lose it. They’re going to think she’s some weird freak. _She’s_ starting to think she’s some weird freak. She doesn’t cry like this. Anything seems to set her off lately. All her emotions are too close to the surface, right under the skin and it feels like she can barely conceal from anyone.

“Don’t be sorry,” Brittany says, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she sits next to her.

“I didn’t mean to start blubbing all over you, though,” she shakes her head, frustrated, shrugging off her backpack and her jacket one after the other.

The reasons why it happened hang between them. She wants to tell her. So badly, because Brittany’s the one person who won’t judge her or think that she’s weird, but she’s afraid to. It feels too much. She’s had hours to deal with everything on the train journey, but Brittany’s had nothing, just presented with this sobbing mess who looks kind of like someone she knows really well. 

“Your mascara ran,” Brittany comments, with small, tight smile. “Here, let me fix it,” she continues, reaching out to dab at her cheeks.

Brittany’s treating her so gently that Santana feels like crying all over again.

“I’m a mess Britt,” she admits, puffing out a breath.

At that, Brittany pulls away, and Santana realises it’s not just about her panda eyes anymore. It’s about everything, and Brittany knows it too. 

“But you’re here,” Brittany nods, as if she’s trying to convince herself that what’s happening is real and not a dream. “And I’m really glad you are. You should’ve told me though! I wanted to make things special.”

“I missed you,” it’s half addressed to the dark linoleum floor, half to the bright orange rug, but it doesn’t matter, it’s still the truth. 

Wordlessly, Brittany’s arm curls around Santana’s shoulders, rubbing her back to comfort her. Santana wants to hold her hand; hold something of Brittany, but it doesn’t feel right or fair, like it’s a betrayal. Things with Dani are still fresh in her mind; the sting of it is still raw. She could argue things ended on the morning that Burt called to tell all what happened to Finn, because that’s what it felt like. One moment, they were all standing in their pyjamas, summoned to what passes for their living room by Kurt, and the next, the world they all knew ended. She saw the shape of the words more than heard them, but they’re ones she’ll never forget.

_“It’s Finn … He’s … He’s dead.”_

The next, she was rushing across the room to catch Rachel as she collapsed on the floor, inconsolable. She doesn’t remember much of what happened after that. Kurt and Dani became shapes and noises, and she stayed there, holding Rachel tight, shielding her – from what, she’s still not sure – for what felt like years; feeling every sob that wracked her body, every gulp of breath that she struggled to take. It took her a long time to realise that there was more than one person crying. It took them even longer to stop.

She didn’t let Rachel go until Hiram appeared out of nowhere, crouching in front of her, eyes kind, voice kinder still.

_“Daddy’s here, sweetheart.”_

The cry Rachel let out at his words; ragged and plaintive, will haunt her for the rest of her life. Those hours are the ones everyone else wants to know about whenever they dare to ask and Santana is brave enough to give answers, but she’s never told them about that. She’s never told them how powerless it made her feel to watch Rachel’s world come crashing down in horrifying close-up. She’s never told them how tiny Rachel felt in her arms, and how it was different to any other time she’s hugged someone. She’s never even told Brittany. They haven’t really talked about Finn or glee or anything about Lima since the funeral. 

She closes her eyes, a tear rolling unbidden down her cheek at the memory. 

“I missed you too,” Brittany replies, quietly, pulling her closer still. Santana’s sure she sniffs back tears of her own. 

They sit like that, huddled, in the now silent room for what feels like a long time and no time at all. Around them, she can hear the rest of the world going on: doors slamming, people running down the corridor, other footsteps from the floors below and above, passing conversation, blaring music overlapping each other. Right now, it doesn’t feel like she’s inside the belly of a robot, it feels like she’s on an island or floating in space, out of her body, out of time. Suddenly, nothing matters. The years don’t matter; the distance doesn’t matter, because they’re here, together.

***

“Britt, this room is fucking weird,” she announces, suddenly, as it registers where they’re actually sitting, and she’s craning as to see everything and try and take it all in.

There are eighteen windows behind them, so it’s still pretty bright, even though it’s turning toward mid evening. The wall opposite is curved like a wave; covered in posters, photos, drawings and problem sets than she can’t even begin to solve. Everywhere else looks pretty much like her old Louisville dorm, except for the crazy looking minimalist modular furniture. It has holes in so it looks like wooden Swiss cheese. You can change it into pretty much anything and put anywhere you want, so no one else’s room will never look even a little like this one. Kurt would have a fit, and she makes a note to take some pictures for him, but she doesn’t think their budget could run to it at home. They’re more Target than IKEA these days.

“I know!” Brittany smiles wide. “Isn’t it cool?”

“Way cool, B,” she laughs lightly. “It’s very you.”

“That’s what my dad said.”

They shuffle around to face each other, sitting Indian style, and she’s starting to feel a little more human.

“The genius in her natural habitat!”

“It feels a little more natural now you’re in it.”

Brittany blushes so hard the tips of her ears go pink and she’s looking down at the duvet, picking at non-existent loose threads. It’s adorable.

“Sorry I took so long to get here,” she replies, tilting her head to catch Brittany’s gaze. “And I’m sorry I just dropped in like this,” she is, because they had plans, or bits of plans, and she wants to acknowledge that because half of their problem was down to her leaving Brittany out of the loop. All her words rush out in a jumbled mess that’s neither explanation or apology, but she feels like that a lot where Brittany’s concerned. “It felt like a good idea five, six hours ago. I know you have classes and work, and it’s almost the weekend so you probably have plans with your friends, but –” 

Brittany cuts her off, overlapping with an unusually stern, “Santana.” When she speaks again her voice is softer, and she’s smiling. “I don’t care about any of that. I care that you’re here, OK? I can work later, and I see my friends every day, but they’re not you, and you’re all I care about right now.”

This isn’t news to her, of course it’s not, but coming from her today, it carries more significance than it ever has. Just when she’s about to answer – or try for something that’s not more incoherent babbling, her phone buzzes in her jeans pocket. 

“It’s from Dani,” she says, glancing down at it.

“Oh” is all Brittany says, and Santana feels her shrink back.

There it is. That heavy, heavy guilt. She swallows hard, wishing it away. When did everything get so damn complicated?

_Ended up going into work. Stepped in to cover you tonight. Gunther’s amazed you’re finally taking a break. I hope you’re OK. Say hey to Britt. You know where I am if you need me. D xx_

“She says hey,” Santana continues, quickly glancing up at Brittany through her lashes as she speedily taps out her reply. 

Brittany’s expression is unreadable, but she’s just trying for neutral and they both know it. Dani’s face always used to look the same whenever Kurt or Rachel would mention Brittany in front of her.

_Still feel like the biggest bitch on the planet. I’m sorry. Thanks for squaring it with Gunther. You’re being way too nice about this. See you when I get back? S x_

The question and the kiss are habits. She regrets both immediately. 

Dani’s reply is quick. 

_We work in the same diner, honey. I’m hardly going to drop off the planet. Yes, I’ll come and see you guys. Stop worrying about me and start taking care of yourself!_

Hers is faster still.

_I’ll try._

“Everything OK?” Brittany ventures, and Santana wonders if she can tell something’s changed between them. 

Santana takes a breath, still clutching her phone, unsure how to answer. “It’s umm,” she stalls; the words ‘we broke up’ are on the tip of her tongue. It’s the first time she’s acknowledged it, even to herself, and it feels strange. She doesn’t even know where to start telling Brittany about that little turn of events. So much for all that practicing on the train. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” Brittany replies, apologetic, running a nervous hand through her hair. “It’s none of my business,” she’s blushing again, but it’s not cute. She can practically feel the embarrassment and awkwardness radiating off of her.

“No no,” she implores, phone forgotten. “It’s just,” she trails off, struggling to find the right words, “weird right now, with everything that happened and it’s crazy busy at work. 

“I get it,” Brittany nods. “It’s a lot to deal with.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Santana just nods and falls silent, knowing it’s better not start a conversation this that right now. She doesn’t think either of them are ready for it. She doesn’t need to explain everything. Not yet. Not ever, if she wants it that way. Brittany’s never pushed her like that. 

After being away from her for so long, the differences between her and Dani are difficult to adjust to. She wants to know more, Santana can tell, but anything she says now will make it look like she has an agenda, that she hightailed it from New York to win Brittany back. That’s what she used to do; pick her up and put her down when it suited her. She’s not that girl and neither is Brittany. This time, there’s no agenda at all. She just wanted to be comforted by someone who knew her inside out and upside down; who knows exactly how she’s feeling and that person will always be Brittany. Santana never wants her to feel like she’s second best, because that’s no way in the world that’ll ever be true. 

They just sit, looking at each other again, saying nothing, and that says everything. Brittany reaches forward and takes her hand, squeezing it just once. It says ‘I’m here, let me back in. Trust me.’ When she smiles sadly and squeezes back, she’s saying ‘Give me time.’ That’s it, that’s them. That’s why they’re perfect and imperfect and right and wrong for each other all at once.

Even so, Kurt’s words are still on her mind. Hours later, she can’t shake them. The timing of all this is _fucking_ terrible, and if it weren’t so tragic, she’d laugh.

“Britt,” she starts, bolstered by a sudden surge of courage because fuck it, they could all drop down dead tomorrow too.

“What?” 

“I guess that you should know,” she pauses, searching for the right words, because no matter what it means for them, Brittany still cares about her, they’re still friends. You’re meant to tell friends about things like this. They used to do it about Puck and Matt Rutherford and whoever else all the time. 

Before Santana can even think of what to say, here’s a loud knock at the door. She sighs heavily. Her chance is gone, and her confidence with it. 

“One second,” Brittany calls, letting go of Santana’s hand and scrambling to answer whoever’s knocking. “Hold that thought,” she continues with a smile when she turns back to look at her. 

“Since when do you not answer texts Pierce?! I’m so hungry I could eat my own head!”

“Since I have visitors, you ass!”

Even though Santana can’t quite see because of the angle, she knows exactly Brittany is talking to. It’s Joey – or Jo-Jo as Brittany calls him – the closest thing Brittany has to a best friend here, his voice familiar from countless Skype calls, and interruptions just like this one. He’s one of the smartest people ever, but his timing sucks with added bits of sucking.

“Hey Nerd Boy, what’s up?” she calls affectionately. 

She gets up off the bed, smoothing out her clothes so she looks halfway normal. 

Brittany steps away, revealing her with a grand little flourish. As soon as he makes the connection, he breaks out into the cheesiest grin Santana’s ever seen. 

“Holy shit! It’s you!”

“It’s me,” she shrugs, and Brittany laughs.

“You’re here!” he’s still smiling, shaking his head in disbelief as he moves closer. “Unless, like, Britt rigged a killer hologram of you or something.”

“Nope, I’m a real girl. Promise.”

They meet in the middle of Brittany’s room and there’s an awkward moment where they aren’t sure how to greet each other. Instead they just laugh and needlessly shake hands. Over Joey’s shoulder, she can see Brittany smiling, big and bright like she did when they first set eyes on each other in the hallway earlier on.

“Joseph Hayes, soon to be published in _Physics World_ and read by no one ever,” Brittany offers, by way of introduction.

“That’s not true, you and my mom are gonna read it,” he counters. “We had a deal. And none of that Joseph shit, Pierce! The only person who calls me that is my grandma, and you’re not her. Thankfully.”

Brittany glares, but it’s playful, gesturing toward Santana with a dramatic sweep.

“Santana Lopez –”

“Known to everyone everywhere as the Yeast-I-Stat girl.” she overlaps, deadpanning. 

Brittany rolls her eyes.

“She’s just being modest,” Brittany cuts in, throwing her arm around Santana’s shoulders. “She’s way more than that. She’s auditioning for plays and commercials all the time.” Brittany squeezes her tightly, bursting with pride.

“For like, toothpaste and drain cleaner, Britt,” she protests, playing things down. “And they’re seriously off-off-off Broadway things.”

“Whatever, that totally beats _Physics World_. Who doesn’t want Internet infamy man? Do you get free stuff?”

“Yeah,” she laughs. “If you ever need any Yeast-I-Stat, I’m your girl.”

“Oh, and you should hear her sing!” Brittany declares as they head for the door.

“Britt!” she cries, embarrassed by all the attention. 

“What?” Brittany looks at her, confused. “You know you’re good. I can’t believe I haven’t showed you, Jo-Jo.”

“Given how much random shit you _have_ told me about Lima and everything, neither do I!” 

Brittany’s door slams shut behind them, and she lets her go, starting to chase him. Santana follows behind, smiling to herself, glad that Brittany’s found what seems like a really great friend. When she first moved here, they both worried that she’d be lonely and might find it hard to make friends, but she can already tell they’re very much kindred spirits. 

“Seriously, all I get is Santana this, Santana that,” he says, pointing the way with a grand sweep of his arm. Santana laughs, relieved that she’s only the only one that gets to be mortally embarrassed today. 

“Jo-Jo!” Brittany wails as she catches up with him, trying to kick him in revenge, but she misses when he jogs forward to catch the door of the stairwell and keep it open. 

“I gotta say Santana, you’re way prettier in three-dimensions,” Joey nods, looking her up and down. “She’s hotter than you made her out to be, Britt.”

“Stop it!” Brittany whispers, and he just grins, swatting her away.

“I like you, Nerd Boy,” she declares, throwing a wink in Joey’s direction as she passes.

“See, she likes me!” he crows as they descend the stairs. “Told you she would!”

They jostle a little with each other and then Joey races away, leaving them alone on the stairs, halfway down.

“Come on ladies, taco’s call!” he yells after them.

Brittany’s laughter echoes around the stairwell, and it makes Santana realise how much she missed it.

“I should’ve warned you how full on he was,” Brittany admits, walking back up to meet her. “Sorry.”

“It’s OK. He’s …”

“Interesting?” Brittany overlaps, arching an eyebrow.

“I was going to say refreshing …” 

What she really means is, compared to everyone else right now; Joey Hayes is alive instead of just living. She’s forgotten what that feels like. 

“He only has two modes; loud and louder, and there’s no off switch.”

“Ha, I think I can deal with that. I hung out with you after two cans of Coke, a whole bag of popcorn and a shit-ton of gummy bears were in your system, _and_ I lived to tell the tale!”

“Oh God,” Brittany groans, “don’t remind me about those gummy bears!”

Santana smiles at the memory. It was their first ‘real’ sleepover in middle school. They stayed up all night watching _Sweet Valley High_ , hopped up on sugar, and it was the best thing ever until Brittany went a very particular shade of green, and spent the rest of the following day hugging the toilet bowl. Sometimes, she forgets those little girls still exist. Somewhere.

“Santana?”

“Yeah?” she looks up, hand curling around the rail as they head toward the dining hall. 

It’s already pretty packed, line snaking out to where Joey is beckoning to them, waving manically.

“What were you going to tell me before?” 

“Nothing,” she replies, quickly, brushing off the question. “It doesn’t matter.” 

There’s a familiar flash of concern in her eyes and she doesn’t look remotely convinced. Instead of pressing her further, Brittany takes her hand and leads her to where Joey and some other people she obviously knows are waiting, but instead of interlacing all their fingers, she takes just one, her pinkie, linking them tightly, and it says more than words ever could. 

***

The dining hall is busy and loud, but she’s glad. It reminds her of the Spotlight and the crazy energy it gets when it’s full and she can’t even hear herself think. These days, she prefers that to the quiet of the loft, and the solemn conversations she and Kurt have over meals they barely touch – getting Rachel to eat is difficult, a battle all of its own; she’s wasting away. Gone are the days where they all sit on the living room floor and together while they binge watch random shit on Netflix while suffering the taste of crappy beer just so they can afford to pay for vegan pizza. The change of pace is enough to give her whiplash. It wasn’t until she stood in line with Brittany that she realised how hungry she actually was. Brittany ordered enough for them both to feed an army, and wouldn’t hear of her paying for anything, presenting a guest card with a grin, just like Santana used to do with her father’s AmEx at the mall when they were in high school. 

They’ve been here for a while, and it’s been nice just to sit back and soak it all up. Mostly, she’s happy to not have to do all the talking, letting Brittany and Joey tell her about the campus, planning out what they can do over the weekend while she’s with them. So far, they have the ball pit, pool and air hockey set down, and a tour of just about every inch of the campus, plus some places in Cambridge that Brittany’s come to love. Honestly, she’s excited about it, and dare she say it, starting to feel something like happy. The food is good, really good, it’s the first meal she remembers enjoying in the longest time. Brittany got them the tacos Joey recommended, they’re sharing some cheese fries between them, and a huge slice of Boston cream pie is next, because Brittany insisted and she was too hungry to think of refusing. It was one of the things on their to-do list, when she first moved here, because “the pie will taste better when they’re actually in Boston” (and it does). The company is even better though. Hanging out with Brittany is always fun, because the conversation can veer from Lady Gaga to algebra in the space of two seconds. Watching other people try to keep up is like a live-action version of _Jeopardy_ and that’ll never get old, but Joey’s just as awesome. He talks faster and louder than necessary, and he’s so animated that he knocks over his drink twice, but he doesn’t even care. Every so often, someone else that either Brittany or Joey knows will come over to their table, and they both present her to them like she’s the greatest person to ever exist. Somehow, everyone seems to know who she is, and every time she looks to Brittany to see how that is, she just shrugs and smiles, until it happens all over again.

Brittany’s truly in her element here, and she couldn’t be happier for her, because God knows, finding their place in the world, much less finding something near like-minded people has been a struggle, and they deserve it after everything they’ve been through. After years of being trapped and afraid, they’re finally both able to spread their wings and it looks really good on her. Brittany’s blossomed in all senses of the word, very much like the outgoing, kind, sweet girl she met back in kindergarten, but bolder and braver, because she has self-belief now. Brittany was always the one who told her she could do anything, but now Brittany believes it too.

***

Two hours and a lot of pool games later, she’s hustled Joey and a bunch of other boys out of close to forty dollars, because they didn’t believe a girl could kick their ass. She skipped enough classes with Puck and Brittany holed up the Lima Pool Hall with biker dudes twice her size to know her way around a table, but she couldn’t resist the challenge. Joey, of course, believed that physics and not skill would win the day. He was gracious in defeat, but incredibly unsubtle when it came to his reasoning for leaving them alone together. He swore up and down that he had some important research to do, but all he was missing was a toga and a bow and arrow to give Cupid a run for his money. His parting shot was to put his number into her phone, and although she’s certain she’s about to open herself up to some very random texts, but also gives her another point of contact so she can ask how Brittany is without actually having to do it. She’s sent that very same text every morning, but the value of it got much higher after Finn died. 

In the end, her ill-gotten gains were put to a good cause, and she bought lattes for her and Brittany to drink on the way back, and then fed an obscene amount into various vending machines to tide them over snacks wise before they tackled the stairs, racing up them two at a time, giddy and breathless once they got to Brittany’s floor. They both get comfort from the familiar, so Santana suggested they watch _Mean Girls_ once they’re back in Brittany’s room. They know it word for word, and after _Bring it on_ , it’s pretty much their favourite movie ever. There are parties going on elsewhere around the campus – Brittany got invited to several while they were at dinner – and usually she’d be down for it, but her tiredness is starting to kick in, so she’ll need a steady stream of caffeine and sugar get her through until the time she usually goes to bed. Brittany seemed to sense it, and politely refused to they could spend time together. All it got her was sweet smiles and doe-eyed looks in return so God knows what Brittany’s been telling people, but they all get this particular look. It’s the same look that everyone in glee club used to give them whenever they did something cute. They were the worst kept secret ever. Maybe they still are. 

“It’s been fun,” Brittany comments as they turn on to her hall, swinging their takeout bag from the diner filled to the brim with their snack stash as she goes. 

“It has,” she nods, glancing at Brittany fondly. “I forgot how much fun you are to hang out with,” she continues, without realising. “Wait, that sounded wrong.”

“Don’t be silly!” Brittany laughs lightly, touching Santana’s forearm. “I know what you meant,” she pauses to unlock her door and flip on the light switch. “The feeling is very mutual.”

She hesitates before stepping over the threshold of Brittany’s room, and they look at each other for a beat or so too long. A dim and distant but familiar feeling rushes her; butterflies swarming in her belly. That hasn’t happened in a really long time. She’s not sure what to make of it, but she’s not entirely uncomfortable either.

“Oh wow,” she exclaims, pushing the door closed.

Brittany’s room looks completely different at night. There are multi-coloured Christmas lights strung up everywhere in rows that cast everything in a beautiful, warm glow, casting patterns up onto the ceiling every time they flash or change colour. She spins around to appreciate it fully, not really sure how she managed to miss all the wires in daylight. It reminds her of the tree house-turned-den in the Pierces backyard.

“I knew you’d like it!” Brittany beams, giving a little clap. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“It’s fucking amazing!” she muses, awestruck as she spins around again until they’re facing each other.

In this light, Brittany looks amazing too, and she really, really wants to say it. The lights nearest her phase from pink to blue, and Santana forgets to breathe. It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Her eyes look bluer than she remembers. Then she remembers something else, how she shouldn’t be feeling any of this at all. The room feels smaller than it was before, and that heavy, guilty dread resettles in her stomach. The butterflies have flown.

Brittany looks like she’s about to say something, but goes to her shelves in the opposite corner of the room instead, flipping through her DVDs. She stands uselessly, watching her, not sure where to sit or even if she should. Eventually, she perches on the edge of the bed, almost jumping out of her skin when her phone buzzes again her pocket. 

It’s Kurt. 

_I’m going to assume you’ve been completely silent because you’ve been busy with a certain blonde._

She rolls her eyes, because _really_?

_I’ve been nothing but a gentlewoman, Hummel. You guys OK?_

_I would never presume otherwise, sweetheart. Barrelling into a pit of despair without you._

Her eyes widen, relieved when another text quickly arrives.

_I was just kidding, that was in poor taste. We’re fine. Rachel’s out with Carole and Joanie. I hope you’re having a good time._

She types back quickly. _It’s nice to get out of New York._

_How noncommittal of you._

Even though he’s not there, she narrows her eyes at him.

“Kurt’s checking up on us!”

At the mention of his name, Brittany brightens. “What did he say?”

“He hopes we’re having a good time,” she answers, looking over at Brittany with a smile as she upends their treats bag on her desk, looking for her bag of Cheetos. 

“Tell him it’s been awesome!” Brittany smiles, big and bright. “Say hi!”

She finds herself smiling back just the same. “Of course.”

_Britt says we’re having an awesome time, and also “Hi!”. Stop fishing. I don’t kiss and tell, you know that._

_Ah, so there’s something to tell :P_

_Fuck you!_

_Charming talk for a young lady! Admit it, you’re happy to be with Brittany._

_Fine. I am. It’s really nice and I feel less shitty when I’m with her, but that doesn’t mean anything at all, OK? Pack away the bridal magazines!_

His reply is quick and decidedly more serious.

_Of course not, but don’t let it mean nothing._

There he is again, sounding irritatingly wise. He’s also rarely wrong, which makes him saying things like that twice as annoying.

_I don’t know what it means, but thanks for pushing to come me so I could find out._

The honesty of what she’s said comes as a shock, and she debates not sending it, but there’s little they don’t know about each other now. He’s a surprisingly good confidante on the very rare occasions she’s willing.

_You’re very sweet sometimes, Santana._

_Don’t let it get around!_

***

They’re pretty much settled in for the night now, sharing drinks and snacks, and things feel easier. Brittany’s playing DJ with her iPod, and that’s even nicer, because they’ve fallen down a Britney Spears and Destiny’s Child blackhole, and she gets to watch Brittany dance while eating Mini Oreos and there’s no one to tell her how bad it is she’s eaten three packets already. The Boston air has made her ridiculously hungry. 

Though Brittany doesn’t train like she used to now, she’s still really good, and Santana still finds herself drawn to her; unable to tear herself away from the fluid shapes her body make when she’s not even trying. She’s tried to get Santana to join her a few times, but she refused to budge from the bed now she’s surrounded herself with pillows. It’s just too damn comfortable. If she’s not careful, she’ll drift off to sleep.

“I’m glad you listened to Kurt for once,” Brittany comments, curling a long Red Vine string into her mouth.

“I was scared they’d think I’d forgotten about them just because they’re in Cedar Rapids.”

“They wouldn’t, San. You’re allowed a break too,” Brittany reminds her, climbing on to the bed next to her, offering her a Red Vine, but Santana shakes her head. “How are they doing?”

She sighs, feeling the mood shift. They’ve been skirting around this all day, but it’s inevitable they’d end up talking about it at some point. 

“They’re both pretty bad. Kurt’s trying to be strong and hide it, but know he’s really hurting and Rachel …” she tails off not really knowing how to describe it. If this had happened to her, she’d still be on the floor somewhere, inconsolable or sedated on some hospital ward.

Most of the time, Rachel seems fine, putting on the bravest of faces, but it’s different at night. The fact she’s without him really seems to kick into high gear. Santana has some idea of how that feels, but at least she can still talk to Brittany. Rachel will always carry around everything she never got a chance to say or show, and that’s the saddest thing of all. 

"I’ve been so worried about you because all you’ve done is work and look everyone else,” Brittany says putting her hand on Santana’s knee briefly. "I know you refused to take those extra vacation days from Gunther, Kurt told me.”

She rolls her eyes. Though she really wants to, she stops short of asking what else Kurt’s been saying to her. 

“Someone’s gotta pay the bills, B. I didn’t want us to get turfed out onto the street. That’s the last thing Rachel and Kurt need.”

“But what about you? Who takes care of you?” Brittany asks, leaning forward.

The question takes her by surprise.

“Me, I guess,” she replies with a shrug.

Ten seconds too late, she realises what she’s actually said and what that actually means. 

“Good to know,” Brittany says, up and off the bed before Santana can even form anything like an apology. “People can only help you if you let them.”

Things aren’t so easy and comfortable anymore. 

She can’t help but think of the memorial, and then this morning with Dani and the playlist. There’s a pattern to this, and she should’ve learned by now, but part of her will forever be hardwired against showing any kind of weakness. Whether that weakness is falling in love or crying over the death of a friend. She’s always had a talent for saying completely the wrong thing and hurting the last person she wants to, but she’s just hit an all time high there (or a low, depending on how you look at it). They’ve all been there for each other, everyone’s been better about keeping in contact, texting here, Skyping there and emailing when they can, but it’s not the same as having Brittany there with her. The distance between them wasn’t just about miles anymore. It didn’t feel right to turn to her for comfort anymore. It didn’t feel right to turn to anyone.

“Fuck,” she mutters, head in her hands and hating herself. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Silence.

Practically jumping out of her skin and desperate to fix things, she wills Brittany to turn around, because she can’t seem to make herself move. Brittany passes over the spine of _Mean Girls_ twice before anyone speaks, and no one’s more surprised than Santana when it’s her doing the talking.

“I broke up with Dani … She broke up with me, whatever,” she offers, as if it justifies anything.

Brittany bows her head and lets out a sigh before turning back to look at her.

“That’s what you were going to say before, wasn’t it?”

She just nods, because there’s no need for anything else.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Brittany asks, demeanour changing completely. She rushes across to the bed, tosses the DVD down, and sits next to her. “I _knew_ something was wrong.”

“There are a lot of things wrong right now, Britt,” she replies, quietly. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“I’m sorry.”

At that, Santana jerks her head up. That wasn’t the reaction she was expecting. There’s an awful lot of apologising going on for no reason. When did they get so wary around each other? Why does everything feel fine one minute, and beyond awkward the next? 

“You are?” it sounds more surprised than she’d like, but she still wants to know the answer.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I care about you, and break ups are always sad,” there’s the slightest hint of anger in Brittany’s words, and Santana feels terrible. “It matters to me that you’re happy. She made you happy.”

“For a while,” she puffs out a long, unsteady breath. It’s the first time she’s said that out loud, and she didn’t want Brittany to be the one to hear it. “After Finn died, everything got messed up,” at the mention of Finn, Brittany visibly stiffens, casting her eyes downward. It even feels weird saying his name out loud. ‘Everything got messed up’ doesn’t really begin to cover it.

“But that’s not your fault,” Brittany’s trying for reassuring, but it just makes Santana feel worse.

“We didn’t even know each other. It was over before it began and I hate that. She stuck around when I would’ve bolted. She’s covering my shifts now so I can be here,” it all rushes out of her at once, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. “I wasn’t fair to her.”

“It wasn’t fair for any of us, Santana,” Brittany comments. “It’s just bad timing is all.”

“She’s been nothing but good to me. She’s covering my shifts so I can be here," she repeats. "Who does that?” she shakes her head, incredulous. “Why are people even nice to me? I was a bitch to everyone at school. I was even a bitch to you!”

“Santana,” Brittany starts, cautious.

This isn’t just about Dani anymore. Everything she’s been feeling isn’t just about Dani, and that’s the problem. She’s felt this rage before, and it took her a long time to find an outlet for it and figure out why she was feeling it at all. This can’t be fixed by morning jogs, pounding the shit out of a punch bag at the gym or singing a fucking song about it all. The memorial taught her that much. So, she has nothing left, and she doesn’t know how to deal with it all. She can’t stop thinking about how unfair and fucked up it is that she knows someone who died and that someone wasn’t old or sick or anything. They’re nineteen years old. What kind of age is that to die? How did they not even know about his heart thing until it was too late? It was bad enough for her learning about his death over the phone; she can’t even begin to imagine how Puck felt on the morning he found him.

“A few weeks ago, the biggest problem I had was teaching Rachel how to balance three plates on one arm!” she laughs emptily, remembering how they practised with paper ones at home so she wouldn’t get bawled out by Gunther for breaking the real thing if she managed to land a waitressing job. “And now, it’s taking her plates of food that she picks at like a bird and hold her while she cries herself to sleep. She’s just so broken Britt, and I don’t know if she’ll ever be the same,” she shakes her head, looking at Brittany through bleary eyes. “She’s allowed to feel like that and so Kurt because he meant so, so much to them. But me? Why? How is that even right?”

“He meant a lot to all of us,” Brittany replies, softly, moving closer to her. “He was our friend, our captain.”

“Yeah, and I teased him and bitched about him behind his back, but he sure got his revenge didn’t he? But I’ve _still_ cried over him,” she gulps in air, fighting back tears, barely able to look at Brittany and even less able to speak. “It’s just fucked up.”

She’s angry now. So incredibly angry, and if she wasn’t here with Brittany right now, she'd probably storm out, find the nearest bar and get drunk out of her mind until it doesn’t hurt anymore. On the nights she’s tried, it’s taken an awful lot of tequila to make that happen. The headache in the morning doesn’t even touch how bad she feels for Rachel, Kurt, and everyone else. All she wants is for their pain to be gone. 

“It’s not!” Brittany cries, eyes brimming with tears. “It’s human, Santana. Don’t ever feel guilty for feeling anything. Just stop. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Santana lets out a long, unsteady breath. She needed to hear someone say that. She needed that someone to be Brittany. 

“I feel guilty too, because I hated him for how much he hurt you for a really long time,” Brittany admits, only just able to get her words out. 

She pulls back, surprised, because Brittany’s never used that word before. “But every time I think about him now, I don’t think about that. I think about the choir room, how much fun we had and how much I loved every single person in that room because they loved us for who we were.”

“Oh Britt-Britt,” she says brokenly.

If her heart wasn’t broken before, it is now. There’s not that much distance separating them at all, but after that, it feels like miles. She shuffles closer, putting her arm around Brittany and kissing her head before she’s even realised what she’s doing. 

“They’re the family we chose, and no matter what happens to us all, nothing will change that.”

She lets out a ragged little whimper at that, head tilted up to the ceiling to force herself to keep it together, head back against the wall. She has to. Brittany is so close to something, and it only just registers with her that she and Brittany are in the exact same situation. Yes, she has friends, good friends, just like Santana has, but they’re not like the old ones who love her and know her as well as she knows herself. They’ve both been suffering in their own way. 

“That’s why I couldn’t come to the memorial. I didn’t want to go into that room and have it feel empty and sad because Finn isn’t there anymore …I wanted to keep good memories not bad ones.” 

And then it happens. Brittany breaks. Santana thought it was bad at the house before the funeral when neither she, Brittany or Quinn could stop crying long enough to put on their make-up, but this is worse. Much worse. She’s sobbing her heart out, clinging to her half in her lap and half against her shoulders, and Santana can feel every tiny vibration as it wracks through her body. She’s felt this before, in the living room with Rachel. She’s heard tears like that before, her own, echoing around the empty second-floor bathroom at McKinley, right after Coach Sylvester and Mr Schue showed her that stupid tape. The cruel symmetry of all this is perhaps the hardest thing to take. 

“Shh …” she soothes, stroking Brittany’s hair. “Please don’t cry.”

“It’s … just … not fair …” Brittany chokes out, between sobs.

“I know, I know.”

It sounds the emptiest phrase in the world. 

“I wanted to come and say goodbye,” Brittany sniffs, leaning back just enough so Santana can see her face again.

She’s never seen her look like this. Ever. Not even when they broke up. The light in her eyes seems dimmer than it was before.

“And,’ Brittany begins, recovering slightly. She moves back to sit on her knees, hands collected in her lap. Santana leaves her pillows behind, and mirrors her, wanting to keep eye contact if nothing else. “I wanted to be there for you and Quinn and everyone, but I just couldn’t.”

She reaches out, dabbing at Brittany’s face carefully with the sleeve of her hoodie because she doesn’t want to let go of her to get anything better.

“It’s selfish and I’m sorry,” Brittany finishes.

“You have nothing to be sorry for!” she exclaims. “I know how much glee club meant to you. To both of us. I understand and so would he,” she assures her, moving to keep Brittany’s gaze.

“I just feel like I let everyone down,” her bottom lip wobbles and she looks dangerously close to crying again. 

Santana can’t stand to see her like this. It hurts her twice as much. 

“Britt, no. Not at all,” she shakes her head vehemently.

“I can’t help it,” Brittany chokes out, clinging to her just as tightly as before.

Brittany’s so close now; Santana can feel her breath on her skin.

“I know baby, I know,” she says, hushed, cupping Brittany’s face in her hands. Brittany’s own fingers curl around her wrists, keeping hold.

She didn’t mean to say it. She didn’t but doesn’t have it in her to pretend it’s wrong.

“I just want everything like it was,” Brittany says, quiet but so incredibly desperate.

They’re not here anymore; they’re back in that empty choir room, looking at each other as she tries to explain how she loves her beyond words, but can’t deal with the fact that the distance between them will change, and make them love less and less and less, but she was wrong, so _very_ wrong. The time and the distance has made her love more. She buried it and then she shared it and now she’s just trying to carry it, and she can’t because all she wants to do is show it.

_I will always love you the most._

Santana’s heart is pounding out of her chest and she can’t really breathe or focus on anything but what Brittany’s just said or the fact their faces are a few short inches apart. She doesn’t have the words to comfort her, so she does it in the only way she knows how. More nervous than she’s ever been, she closes the gap between them, brushing her lips against Brittany’s, just as careful and gentle as their very first kiss, when they were barely fourteen. She pulls back before Brittany really has a chance to react, but the look on her face is just as wondrous.

It’s Brittany that moves forward this time, more sure, but when their lips press together, it’s just as soft. Cautiously, Santana kisses back; building from slow little pecks that are little more than a test to something deeper and more languorous. She gasps into Brittany’s mouth when fingertips tangle in her hair; familiar and unfamiliar at once. They both still shaking and all she can taste is the salt of Brittany’s tears, the sweetness of the candy, and something that’s just Brittany every time their lips connect and disconnect. All she can think is how right and natural it feels, and how wrong they were to deny it for so long.

They can’t go back, and it can never truly be like it was, too much has happened for that and they’re not the same because of it, but they can go forward together. When they break apart, giddy and breathless, Brittany traces her face like she’s seeing her for the very first time all over again, and now she never wants to look away.

“Santana,” Brittany says, so softly that it makes her name sound new.

She swallows hard, heart somewhere up in her throat when she asks, “Britt?”

“Will you let me take care of you now?”

All she can do is nod, blinking back tears, too overwhelmed to do anything else.

“Just so you know,” Brittany continues, barely above a whisper, resting her forehead against Santana’s. “I don't need you to take care of me anymore … but I'd really like it if you did.”

“Britt-Britt,” she whimpers, pressing her lips against Brittany’s in the barest of kisses.

Brittany smiles into it, and they keep kissing; soft, slow and just as passionate as Santana remembers. Brittany pushes her gently back against the mattress, hand cradling her head to cushion her landing. They lie together side by side; kissing idly and touching needlessly; their fingertips grazing along forearms and jawlines, as if they need to see whether the shapes they know so well have shifted in the time they’ve been apart. Every time they touch; things hurt a little less. Her mind, heart and her bones are a little less heavy. She can breathe again. She can go on living. It doesn’t matter that the bed is really too small for them both to be in or timing of this is wrong or that Santana’s bone-deep tired; all that matters is that they’ve found their way back to each other.

Life doesn’t give many second chances, and she’s not going to waste a second of this one.

“Sleep baby,” Brittany murmurs, as she strokes her hair, kissing her atop the head. “There’s always tomorrow.”

Santana nods sleepily, still fighting it, even more so now it’s beginning to get light outside. Brittany’s right, she knows she’s right, but there’s so much she still needs to say. What about tomorrow and the day after? What will they do? Where will they live? Her last sight before her closes her eyes is Brittany, and that’s all she needs to know for now. Whatever those tomorrows are, Brittany will be there with her.

She dreams, bright and vivid of those tomorrows.

There’s another apartment, far from Boston in some upscale New York suburb, and she’s making another batch of breakfast pancakes. An old, but familiar song plays on the radio that rests on the windowsill. This time, the arms that slide around her waist to hold her and the soft lips that press good morning kisses against her neck are Brittany’s. There’s a wedding ring on her finger that’s still a novelty to wear, glinting in the morning light, and she’s never felt happier. Finn is a face amongst many in a fading collection of photographs on the living room wall, but he’s never forgotten.

***

 **Footnote** : The inspiration for Brittany’s room came from [this](https://31.media.tumblr.com/334eb0b6f9d5b7fbae0f8daaaa2082a6/tumblr_n3opgrZNwF1txkikoo2_1280.jpg) real dorm room in Simmons Hall at MIT.


End file.
